I am not there I do not sleep
by Fido the Finch
Summary: Dick wouldn't hesitate to wrap him in a warm, tight hug. He would give the kinds of hugs that lasted a long time; he would rock. He would whisper 'It's going to be okay' until you believed him. Tim knew from experience. But he couldn't do that. He couldn't replace Dick.


**A/N: My little sister, who is my biggest supporter, requested I write something with Damian and Tim. Sorry, hun, this isn't what you asked for. I didn't mean to ;_;**

"What are you doing here?"

Tim spun around at the harsh whisper. Damian was eyeing him from the kitchen doorway. If he didn't know that he was a fledgling assassin, he may have thought the ruffled hair, fluffy slippers, and grumpy cat in his arms was kind of adorable. As it was, he slid the butter knife he was using a little further down the counter.

"Working on a case with Bruce." He couldn't help smirking. "Since Robin is benched." He wasn't sure, but rumor had it the kid had been coughing up a storm for several days.

Damian pouted, and that was all the confirmation he needed.

They both jumped when the toaster popped. Damian tutted in annoyance when Alfred the cat leapt from his arms. "Traitor."

Tim rolled his eyes. "Toast?" They were nowhere close to getting along yet, but these days they could tolerate being in the same room. And it was late—or was it early?—and the bruise on Tim's shoulder where a perp had managed to land a lucky blow was throbbing more than he had hoped it would. He didn't feel like picking a fight.

Damian scrunched his nose. "I prefer real food."

Tim shrugged. (And winced when it pulled his shoulder.) "Suit yourself."

It wasn't until he had finished buttering his toast that he realized Damian hadn't moved. He looked lost. "You okay?"

Damian shook his head dismissively. "Tt. Yes." At the prompt, he moved toward the cabinet filled with Alfred's tea. The mugs were on the top shelf. Tim took a careful bite of his toast, waiting for Damian to ask for help.

It took more time than he would have expected. Damian filled the kettle first, looked through all of the teas (he chose non-caffeinated chamomile). Stood by the counter with the kettle until it whistled. The cat wandered back in, and Damian almost absently picked him up and stroked him. He didn't react to the kettle.

Tim began to feel uncomfortable. He shifted in his seat. He was done with his toast. He should leave.

Without saying anything, he grabbed a mug (tried not to showcase what a strain it was for himself to reach that shelf, either) and set it on the counter in front of Damian.

The smaller boy didn't say anything, but Tim watched a chill run through him. He put Alfred down and placed the teabag in the bottom of the mug. His hands shook while he poured from the kettle.

"Damian?"

Without waiting for the tea to steep, the boy took a careful sip. He slammed the cup back down so he could cover his mouth for the ensuing coughing fit.

Tim winced. It was a hoarse, deep cough. His caught himself with his hand halfway up, ready to help. Somehow. But Damian didn't like to be touched, and especially not by _him_.

When the coughing fit passed, Damian took his mug and started toward the door.

Tim had a bad feeling. He couldn't just let him go. "Wait." If he hadn't also grabbed his arm, he would have been ignored.

Damian turned on him with a frown. "What?" It was more tired than annoyed.

Tim licked his lips. "What are you doing here?"

"I live here." _Unlike you_ strongly implied.

"You're sick. Why are you up?"

Damian schooled his frown into a blank face. "I woke up."

Tim's brow furrowed. He let go of Damian's arm.

Damian looked into his mug and swirled the contents a few times. Didn't walk away like he expected. Tim got the distinct impression he did not come down for the tea.

It dawned on him. "You had a nightmare."

Damian shook his head sharply. "No."

"Then what?"

"It was a good dream." Damian took another tentative sip from the mug. He swallowed this one without issue. "It was. . . convincing."

Tim leaned back against the counter. He looked at the box of tea bags that Damian had left out. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Damian used another sip of tea to hide his mouth. "Not with you," he muttered into the liquid.

Tim was frustrated. Dick was better at these kinds of things.

But Dick was dead.

Tim's eyes widened. "Oh."

Damian was already shuffling out the door again, Alfred the cat slinking closely behind. Tim raised his voice a bit. "I miss him, too."

Damian paused just long enough to confirm that he heard.

"Sometimes I think I can hear him walking down the stairs." Tim pulled down his own mug and deposited a tea bag. He felt heaviness welling up and couldn't bring himself to make eye contact.

"The cold medicine that Pennyworth gave me," Damian said, back to Tim. "It causes. . . odd dreams."

Tim held the mug of warm water with both hands, letting the warmth sneak into his grief-chilled hands. "I dream about him, sometimes," he said, still carefully not looking up. "That I call and he answers. Or I walk into the Cave and he's there."

Damian's breath hitched, and Tim thought it was another cough on its way. "I thought he was back." A sniffle.

Tim didn't know what to say. He had never seen him cry. "Stay?" He asked.

Damian was still so long Tim was about to repeat the question. But right when he opened his mouth, Damian shambled to the counter next to Tim. He stood close; they weren't touching, but Tim could feel their shared body heat.

They didn't look at each other.

After a minute or two of silence, Tim decided his voice was stable enough to speak. "After—" and no, he had to clear his throat. "After my dad . . . Dick would come over. We watched the home renovation channel, when. . . you know."

Damian scoffed half-heartedly.

"It was just boring enough to put me to sleep." Tim smiled ruefully. "I wasn't stupid, I knew what he was doing. But it was nice."

Damian still didn't say anything. Tim heard the occasional sniffle, but didn't look over. This was new territory. Tim felt like he was treading thin ice.

Dick wouldn't hesitate to wrap him in a warm, tight hug. He would give the kinds of hugs that lasted a long time; he would rock. He would whisper 'It's going to be okay' until you believed him. Tim knew from experience.

But he couldn't do that. He couldn't replace Dick.

He heard when, several minutes later, Damian finished his tea. Tim was on his last sip, too.

"You should go to bed," Tim said.

"I don't want to," Damian admitted in a whisper.

Tim stared into his mug thoughtfully before draining it. "Come on." He didn't wait for Damian to reply, and he didn't look back to see if he followed. He went to the living room and pulled out several soft and heavy blankets, the ones he knew Damian liked best.

Sure enough, by the time he had located the television remote, Damian had made himself comfortable on the overstuffed couch. Tim flipped to the home renovation channel.

He took a step toward the separate chair, but stopped himself. What would Dick do?

He changed direction and sat on the opposite side of the couch. Let himself under the blankets.

Damian didn't protest. Didn't look away from the screen.

Tim took a deep breath and scooted closer. Damian didn't say anything, but after a few seconds passed, he lost the tension in his shoulders. Alfred found them and jumped into Damian's lap, and the smaller boy melted into Tim's side.

Damian's breath evened out before the end of the episode. Tim gently tucked his feet under the blankets. It was a testament to the cold medicine the younger boy didn't wake from the movement.

"He loved you a lot," He whispered into Damian's hair. And it hurt to speak in the past tense. He revised his statement. "He loves you still, wherever he is."

He fell asleep and imagined he could feel a tight, warm hug, and his older brother's voice.

 _It's going to be okay_.


End file.
